


bound by symmetry

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, past trauma, some possessiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: “What is it that you’re proposing?”“What?”“What are you proposing as a way to change this,” he gestures between the two of them, “and keep us safe?”...Crowley and Aziraphale come up with a new Arrangement after the church bombing.





	1. 1941

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Decemberists, Red Right Ankle

Crowley can tell that Aziraphale wants to say something. It’s obvious; it’s in the way he clutches his bag of mouldering old books, it’s in the way he can’t meet Crowley’s eyes, it’s practically seeping from Aziraphale’s every pore. Crowley has no idea how Aziraphale thought he could make it as a double agent, because he has an awful poker face: right now he looks almost as worried as he had after giving away his heavenly flaming sword. Like he knows he’s awaiting Her wrath and can’t put it out of his mind.

“Ah,” Crowley says, nervously tapping the Bentley’s window. “Will you get in trouble for the miracle back there? Protecting us from the bomb?”

“What? Oh, no, I don’t think so. There’s so much going on down here, they don’t seem to be paying any attention to me at all lately. If Gabriel didn’t adore his earthly tailor so much, I wonder if he would even-- well, I shouldn’t be so harsh. He does pop in occasionally. One never knows when.” Aziraphale frowns, looking past Crowley to the bookshop outside the car window. “How are your feet?” he asks suddenly.

“Better than I thought they’d be,” Crowley lies. It’s a screaming, miracle-proof agony. Fortunately, throughout his long existence, Crowley has gotten very good at distancing himself from his own pain. Practice makes perfect.

“Oh, I’m so relieved,” smiles Aziraphale. He clears his throat. “So, Anthony?”

“Ah, yes. I had to pick something. You know humans. They get antsy if you can’t fill out all the lines on their paperwork.”

“Right. Right. Humans.” He makes no move to exit the car. Doesn’t extend an invitation for a nightcap like Crowley thought he might.   


“Something on your mind, angel? You’re, uh. You’re literally wringing your hands.”

Aziraphale looks down at his hands, clasps them together. “Thank you,” he says softly. “Thank you. Thank you. I know you don’t want me to say it. My dear. My _dear_. How can I hold back? You even remembered my books. _Thank you_.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley says, manufacturing a sneer, hopefully fighting off a blush through sheer force of will. “I hope that’s out of your system now. Such _drama_.”

Crowley is almost looking forward to a snipe back; after all, he’s well aware he didn’t exactly make his _least _dramatic entrance into that church tonight. But Aziraphale remains silent, staring at his hands. Eyebrows tilted in a frown.

“Is there somewhere else I should take you?” Crowley asks. “You can go anywhere.”

“Oh. No. Well. There is… there is something I’d like to ask you. But it’s not important! I’ll just head inside.” And he grabs for the door handle like Crowley is going to let him go after _that_.

“Wait, wait!” Crowley says, too loudly, and Aziraphale stills but looks spooked. “It’s okay if it’s not important,” he says, trying for a low, soothing tone. “Ask me, you can ask me anything. Is someone bothering you?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I… well, you see, I wouldn’t actually do anything, regardless! Of course not! But I do find myself bursting to know.”

“To know what?”

“To know if… If I were to kiss you, would you be… interested? Amenable?”

“Kiss?” Crowley asks, horrifyingly high-pitched, more shocked than if Aziraphale had asked him to take a holy water bath, more shocked than if Aziraphale had said he _wasn’t hungry, _no no, take the crepes away.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting but resolute; for all his shyness earlier, he’s staring directly into Crowley’s eyes now; it’s as if his glasses don’t exist. Crowley is dimly aware that he is taking too long to respond, knows Aziraphale could flee the car at any time, but Aziraphale doesn’t even try: it seems he is waiting to hear the answer directly from the horse’s mouth.

“Yes,” Crowley says finally, boiling over. “Yeah. Yes. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

And Aziraphale _blooms_; he’s a rose, he’s a sunflower, he’s a field of daisies, he’s the last delicate lily of the valley in spring. He’s the rising sun. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, my dear, I so hoped you would say that. I’m terribly sorry for asking; I know it only makes it more difficult, but I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear.”

“Difficult? So you… you want?”

“Well. Yes. Yes. I really shouldn’t have asked, but I would have spent _decades _wondering, and you were so angry at me, who knows when I’ll see you again, it’s been--”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts, but doesn’t know what to say. The pain is radiating from the soles of his feet up his calves, the ache in his chest is raging. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m so sorry. I assure you, nothing will change. I’ve been a bit silly tonight, haven’t I? Sentimentality, ever my weakness.” He shakes his head. “You look tired. Would you like to come in for a drink? Or go home and sleep?”

“I’ll take a drink,” Crowley says, and lets Aziraphale drag him into the bookstore. Settle him on the sofa. Pour whiskey into a teacup like he knows he needs it, just like that; it’s a gift: the thinnest veneer of plausible deniability. Crowley closes his eyes. Slumps back against the cushions. Lets the alcohol work through his system. Dull the aches. He keeps his breathing steady. In, out, in, out. He knows he’ll get nowhere with Aziraphale if he gets angry.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says.

“I want to talk to you,” Crowley says, roughly. “I don’t want to fight, I want to talk. But I can’t have you-- I can’t have you go skittering away from me, if you don’t like what I say. Please. Will you agree, this time, this once, to sit here and talk to me?”

Aziraphale sits right next to him, solemn look on his face. The soft light settles over him in a glow, making him look more ethereal than ever. _Fuck_. “I’ll listen to anything you want to say. I promise.”

“Angel. Aziraphale.” He swallows, dry, then tips his head back to drain his cup. It’s always been a matter of finding the right words, the right words and persistence, but he doesn’t have time in his corner tonight. He senses this is a one-off, that if he comes by tomorrow there will be no promises of listening, no talk of kisses. But Crowley’s never gotten much right on the first go, has he? “Angel,” he says again. “You said… you said nothing would change, and you’re right: nothing has to change. But what if we tried? We could try to change this, we could try to move forward in a way that makes you comfortable.”

“I don’t see how I could ever be comfortable with risking you,” Aziraphale says, but he doesn’t sound angry or sad. Just… matter of fact. Like he’s already thought this through and accepted the inevitable outcome. Crowley’s heart sinks, and he abruptly changes tack.

“You want to kiss me,” he says.

“What could have given it away,” Aziraphale says dryly.

Crowley grins. _Bastard_. “You want to kiss me. Have you kissed anyone before? Really kissed someone, only because you wanted to?”

“Have you?”

Crowley shrugs. “When I’ve had to, yes.”

Aziraphale gives him a sharp look. “Because I wanted to, you said. That doesn’t sound like you really wanted to.”

Crowley is starting to feel a little warm. Didn’t think this would get turned around on him so quickly. He wants something to drink but can’t bear the thought of standing up, putting pressure on his feet again. “Well, it’s different for demons, isn’t it? You don’t have to go around doing temptations.”

“What about sex? Have you…” Aziraphale trails off. He’s staring off somewhere just to the left of Crowley’s face, mouth twisted in a frown.

“When I’ve had to.”

Aziraphale takes his hand. His eyes are filled with tears. “Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley breathes. In. Out. In. Out. Fights the urge to snatch his hand away. “Don’t. It’s standard. It’s… sometimes it’s the only way. And… and anyway, it goes to what I’m saying. You could -- _we _could have the opportunity to be with someone we--” He pauses, frowns. “Someone we trust,” he says, though even that seems like a stretch, considering how quickly Aziraphale was ready to believe he was working with those fucking Nazis.

Aziraphale still has Crowley’s hand. He turns it over, traces the lines on his palm. Crowley can feel it _everywhere_. “I’ve kissed humans,” Aziraphale says. “Never in a… passionate way. It seemed harmless. Nothing more. But. I get angel visitors sometimes, though rarely. It’s been a long while since the last. I don’t know if anybody up there but Gabriel really remembers me anymore. But… the last to visit. They were… very interested in their corporeal form. And mine.”

Crowley is almost surprised by the sick twist to his stomach. “You fucked an angel,” he surmises hoarsely. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Hypocritical tears are pricking at his eyes. _Fuck_.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t. I demurred, quite politely, and they didn’t press the issue. It didn’t feel like the right thing to do at the time. But I’ve wondered, since then, if I made a mistake. Not trying it.”

“Because you wanted to be with them?”

“No. Not that.” Aziraphale releases Crowley’s hand, wriggles his spine even straighter than usual. “What is it that you’re proposing?”

“What?”

“What are you proposing as a way to change _this_,” he gestures between the two of them, “and keep us safe?”

“Well,” Crowley says, because he doesn’t actually have a plan, has never really let himself imagine the specifics of a scenario like this. “What scares you most? Getting caught, I know, but I don’t mean the consequences. What scares you most about the idea of being together?”

Aziraphale bites his lower lip. Looks lost in thought. Like he’s actually taking this seriously. Crowley is starting to suspect he may be dreaming. He reaches out to tap Aziraphale on the knee, lightly, lightly, just to prove to himself that he’s really there. Aziraphale blinks, smiles.

“Hyper vigilance,” he says. “We would have to be careful all the time. It’s exhausting. We’d make mistakes. I don’t see how we wouldn’t be doomed from the start.”

“We’ll set limits, then,” Crowley says. “Meet only once a year, in that way.”

“Once a year is so often. I haven’t even seen you for--”

“Once every ten years, then,” Crowley says, palms up, desperation on display. “Once a decade. Nothing changes between us outside of one day per decade. Nothing we’d acknowledge, anyway.”

Aziraphale looks at him carefully. Takes his hand again. “You’d do that?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know I would,” Crowley snaps, because he always sabotages himself eventually.

But Aziraphale doesn’t look fazed. “I _didn’t _know. I… okay. Okay. Let’s… let’s do this.”

“What, really?”

“Yes. We can meet up here. I can set up protections ahead of time. I’ll be discreet.” He pauses. “Will you pick a date? We can keep to the same date every time. Less to discuss. ”

“Yeah. Um. I don’t know. Somewhere in the middle. ”

“Years that end in 5, then. Summer.”

“July. Middle. 15th of July.”

“Four years.”

“Less than.”

Aziraphale smiles, small. Sad. “Are you sure this is what you want? Wouldn’t it be easier for you with… nearly anyone else?”

“What a _practical _point of view. Heavenly, even.”

“I just want you to be sure that you--”

“There’s nobody else, angel. There’s never been anybody else.” And that’s it, isn’t it? That’s all his cards on the table. That’s Crowley, split open, prepped for autopsy, nothing to hide, not anymore. He finally, finally yanks his hand away from Aziraphale’s. Adjusts his glasses. Pastes a smirk on his face.

“Darling,” says Aziraphale. 

Crowley shuts his eyes. Lets it burn him through. Burn him clean. Lets it hurt. “I should. I should go.”

“Four years,” Aziraphale says.

“Four years.” He forces himself to saunter to the door of the bookshop.

“Crowley, I-- it’s--”

“Angel?”

“Please be careful. Please.”

“You too,” he says, and he’s gone.


	2. 1945

After taking an absurd about of care to look nonchalant, Crowley opens the door to the bookshop at exactly midnight. 24 hours. 24 hours. One entire day to do exactly as they please -- whatever that might be. He’s spent months, _years_ Definitely Not Thinking About what that means. About what he’d asked for, advocated for. About what he wants.

Aziraphale pops out from behind a bookshelf as if he’d been hiding there. Waiting there. “You’re here,” he says, and it’s in the tone of his ancient _fear nots_ and _be not afraids_: something that is clearly meant to sound forceful and confident but only comes across as bewildered.

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Yes.”

Aziraphale creeps forward, hand out, reaching toward him. “Darling,” he says, a whisper, a question.

“_Yes_, angel. Yes, of course.”

Aziraphale draws Crowley to him; they’re cheek to cheek. “This is a truly terrible and dangerous idea,” he says. “I hoped you were smarter than this.”

It cuts, but Aziraphale is so close; they’re _touching_; it’s balm to a wound that he’s sure Aziraphale hadn’t meant to soothe. “It tingled when I opened the door. Like bubbles popping.”

“It’ll feel like more than bubbles to anyone who isn’t you. We’re as safe as we can be, which is to say, not safe all.”

“I get it,” Crowley says, stock-still except for his fingertips grazing Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Have you changed your mind?”

“I tried.”

“I can tell.”

Aziraphale seems to slump; he inches backward. Exhales slowly. “I’m sorry,” he says. He brings one hand to Crowley’s cheek. “I haven’t changed my mind. Have you?”

Crowley can’t speak; he shakes his head, forcefully, but Aziraphale’s hand moves with him, thumb to cheekbone. Maybe Crowley never thought this day would come, maybe he’s spent years waiting for Aziraphale to call the whole thing off. Maybe he can already tell he has no idea how to hold on to this, whatever it is, now that he has it.

“Come with me,” Aziraphale says, and leads him by hand up the creaky, narrow stairs of his shop to a wide open room with a large bed in the center, complete with navy quilt and fluffy pillows. He can hardly take his eyes off it; a bed, _Aziraphale’s_ bed. He only vaguely notices as Aziraphale walks him to one side of the room and sits them both down on a velvet sofa opposite two large, covered windows. “It just _feels _safer in here, because nobody ever comes up,” Aziraphale says, “though I suppose in actuality it’s not much-- oh. Crowley? Crowley, my dear, are you alright?”

Crowley tears his glazed eyes away from the bed. “I’m fine. Just… never been up here before.”

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, low. “May I?” He brings one hand to hover over Crowley’s, as if he hasn’t been touching Crowley freely since he walked through the door.

“You don’t have to ask.”

“Mm.”

“I’m serious, angel. You don’t have to ask.”

“All right. May I?”

Crowley closes his eyes. Pushes his glasses more firmly to his face. “Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand in both his own. “I’ve thought about this,” he says. “Your hand in mine, or mine in yours, or you merely _wanting _to--”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You’re a fool if you think _wanting _has ever been a problem. Aziraphale--”

“Then tell me. Tell me what you want. We could go back downstairs and have tea. We could go back downstairs and have a drink. We could sit right here and you could let me hold your hand and you could tell me what you’ve been up to because I always wish to know but how can I ask? Or--”

“I _want _you to _touch _me,” Crowley says, face burning hot; he’ll have to leave if Aziraphale asks him to elaborate, because he can’t; he doesn’t know any further than this; he can’t even see further than Aziraphale’s hands on him and nobody else.

“I am touching you,” Aziraphale says, but thoughtfully, head cocked to one side, considering. “Do you want…? Would you be comfortable, stretched out here, with your head in my lap? Not for… just for relaxing.”

Crowley moves without answering, rests his head in Aziraphale’s lap as suggested, legs dangling over the arm of the other side of the sofa, hand still wrapped up in both of Aziraphale’s, hovering awkwardly over Crowley’s chest. Aziraphale gently disengages their hands. Holds both his hands out, palms forward, fingers waggling. Crowley coughs a laugh and Aziraphale grins.

“Darling,” he says, “can you show me where you want to be touched? Put my hands where you want them.”

It must be the gentlest gesture ever made for Crowley’s benefit; to be able to get what he wants without having to say the words out loud; without having to wait and see what is done to him, tense and reactive. Crowley makes what he hopes is a grateful noise, moves one of Aziraphale’s hands into his hair, hesitates over the other. Finally decide, laces their fingers together. Squeezes.

Aziraphale exhales, combs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, scratching against his scalp. Squeezes Crowley’s hand back, blissfully wordless communication, thumb stroking gently, just above Crowley’s wrist. Crowley feels wrung out; he thought he’d been relaxed, but tension is seeping away with every sweep of Aziraphale’s fingernails, every muscle going limp.

Crowley doesn’t know how long he lies there before Aziraphale whispers, “Can you sleep? Sleep, darling.”

“You could read,” Crowley murmurs back, half-asleep already, “something wicked, angel.”

“I want to see you; you always sleep, and I don’t know what that looks like. Let me see you, please.”

“’Kay,” he says, maybe out loud, maybe in his head.

…

_Crowley stands tall; he surveys his work. Stars sweep out around him; he’s the source-point of this great stain, this cavernous bleeding of darkness and light._

_She touches him, gently. “I’m proud of you,” She says. “You’ve surpassed my expectations,” She says. “You’ll fail me,” She says._

_He knows._

_The angel laughs at him in Eden. He wields his flaming sword with ease; he grins and his sharp teeth are red. “_This _is when you choose to do as you’re told?” He laughs and laughs. Eve falls in the distance._

_He Falls. The angel laughs._

_He’s in a bar. Souls are on the line. There are hands around his neck. There are hands everywhere. “Yes,” he lies._

He wakes. Doesn’t open his eyes. “Angel,” he whispers.

“I’m here!” Aziraphale shifts slightly, Crowley becomes aware he’s still using Aziraphale’s lap as a pillow.

“I drooled on you,” Crowley says.

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale beams at him. “You’re lovely, you know.”

“Shut up, you are.” But it doesn’t come out quite as cutting as he intended. Or at all cutting. “How long have I been out?”

“Oh, for a while, but you needed it.”

Crowley scrambles up. “Tell me you didn’t let me sleep all day.”

“Not quite all day.”

“Angel--”

“I know, but you were _sleeping on me._ It was. It was. I’ve wanted--”

Oh. “That’s what you wanted?” Crowley crawls to Aziraphale on the sofa, straddles his lap. “You wanted to watch me sleep? What else do you want?”

Aziraphale smiles, eyes crinkling. “I have what I want.”

But does he? “Not exactly what you signed up for though, is it?”

“I signed up for you.”

Crowley doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He always knows what to do with his hands. He groans. “I do want,” he says. “You. All of it. It’s. I get in my head.” Fuck it. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. Uses his hands to clutch at Aziraphale’s shirt.

“We’ll go slow; I’d like that. If you want.” Aziraphale nuzzles into Crowley’s neck. Hugs his waist. Opens his mouth against Crowley’s skin.

“Kiss me, kiss me,” Crowley says, too harshly against the effort it takes to voice this kind of request out loud.

Aziraphale breathes out, hot against his neck. Presses a kiss there. Follows it with a swipe of his tongue. Kisses up Crowley’s jaw. The corner of his mouth. Pulls back. “Should’ve kissed you. When we set this up, this new Arrangement. I had your hand, you let me hold your hand, you’d have let me kiss it too, wouldn’t you? I could tell. I was so close to you. I wanted to kiss you, but I didn’t, I let you walk away without kissing you. Why did I, how could I?”

Crowley groans. He surges forward to kiss Aziraphale on the mouth; Aziraphale makes a desperate, happy noise, opens his mouth, lets Crowley lick inside, slow, trace his tongue over Aziraphale’s. Lets Crowley explore, memorize. Linger. Bite down on his lower lip. Tongue over the small sore spot.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps, and grasps Crowley’s head in both hands, tilting til he gets the angle he wants. Kisses into Crowley’s mouth, gasps again. Pulls away. “Overwhelming,” he says.

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Yes, yes, it is. You are. You are.”

“Me?” Aziraphale asks, like he’s actually not aware he’s been overwhelming Crowley since about four minutes into their first meeting. Crowley stares at him until Aziraphale’s lips twitch into a small smirk. _There it is._

“You’re a ridiculous bastard,” Crowley says. Tries not to sound too admiring.

“Nonsense. I’m an ethereal being of pure goodness. And you’re a demon with no concept of kindness or feelings. It’s all very black and white, darling.”

“Glad we have that cleared up.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, then suddenly beams, radiating light and happiness. “I forgot! We have cake!”

…

They eat cake and drink cocoa as their 24 hours runs low.

“Don’t mention it, please,” Aziraphale asks. “I don’t want to spend any of our time together thinking about after.

So, he doesn’t mention it. Pretends he’s not dreading the end of this, the return to normality that’s been on his mind for years. But he’s not quite able to smile as he heads toward the door. As the clock ticks to midnight. 

Aziraphale catches him just before he opens the door. Kisses his hand. “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself, with all these new memories. You know I. I.” He sighs. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Me too, angel. Me too.” He tips his head forward, kisses Aziraphale’s forehead. And goes.


	3. 1955

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “You showed up.” He sips from a glass of wine, eyebrow raised, bland smile on his face. He could almost pass as being perfectly composed, but there’s tension behind his eyes and a faint tremor when he stands; there’s a sway to his step that says he’s probably a few bottles in already.

Crowley shrugs, slumps into Aziraphale’s sofa. “I’m sorry I ignored your phone calls, Aziraphale,” he says, just as he rehearsed. 

“Why? It was only two years. We’ve gone far, far longer than that without contact.”

“Angel--”

“You were very clear from the start, weren’t you? No changes in our relationship outside of this one day per decade.”

Crowley whips off his glasses, tosses them to the side. Rubs his eyes hard; hard enough to feel, hard enough to hurt. “Saw you with a human, a few times. I needed to get away.”

Aziraphale laughs, high and cold. “I have no idea what human you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter. I saw, I saw how he was looking at you. He hugged you.”

“Sometimes students use the shop like a library, which is of course preferable to-- and they _can _be demonstrative. Are you. Are you suggesting I did something untoward?”

“No! I don’t know! It didn’t matter. I couldn’t…” How can he say he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear it for one more second? How can he say he’s been spiraling downward since the second he stepped out of Aziraphale’s shop ten years ago? “It wasn’t really about that. I just couldn’t…”

Aziraphale paces the length of the room, once, twice. Finger curled into tight fists “Why even come here tonight? If you… I assumed you’d not.”

Crowley straightens his spine, hisses, “If you thought I wouldn’t come then why are all your special _protections _in place? Do you just like playing with wards?”

Aziraphale slams one hand down on a small wooden table to the left of his chair; it _shatters_, explodes to splinters. Aziraphale takes a surprised step backward, and Crowley shoots to his feet, but Aziraphale holds up his hand, dripping with blood, to stop Crowley from approaching. Aziraphale closes his eyes, sucks in a deep breath. “Do you honestly think I would take a chance, _risk your life_, just because you changed your mind about us?”

Crowley opens his mouth; says nothing. Aziraphale whirls around, whirls away. “I need time alone,” he says, and stalks up the stairs, leaving Crowley downstairs in the wreckage.

…

Crowley should leave; he knows he won’t. Could never. He sits alone for hours, hoping Aziraphale will come back down; he does nothing, doesn’t even miracle the table back together. Finally he stands, follows Aziraphale’s path. Doesn’t he always? 

Aziraphale is lying stretched on his bed, bloody hand flat on his bedding, palm facing up. His other arm is flung over his eyes. Crowley approaches slowly but conspicuously, clearing his throat. He takes Aziraphale’s hand in his own. “Why haven’t you healed it?”

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“May I?” Crowley asks, tapping the bed. Aziraphale nods, and Crowley crawls onto the bed awkwardly, keeping a hold on Aziraphale’s injured hand. He settles, sitting cross-legged, and traces his finger over Aziraphale’s palm, removing a dozen slivers of wood, then closing the small wounds left behind.

“Thank you.” He sits up against the pillows. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_. I haven’t changed my mind about us, that was never… I couldn’t do that. I just don’t know how to do this. I couldn’t talk to you, not about anything… important. And that _person _touched you and I couldn’t stand to watch, couldn’t touch you instead. I couldn’t move.”

“I thought-- I told myself you must have been discorporated. I thought you were in hell, working your way back to me. I didn’t realize until you walked through the door with that look on your face that you truly ignored me for two years.”

Crowley drags his hand over his face. Swipes away tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale reaches towards him, thumbs under his eyes. “We can’t do this, can we?”

“Please, don’t say that.”

“Crowley. I. I can’t--”

“I’ll do better. I won’t panic. I’ll--”

“Crowley.”

Crowley collapses in on himself. Arms around his head. Head between his knees. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.”

“Why did you--?” Aziraphale stops. Closes his eyes. “Ask me. Ask me if I’ve wanted anyone but you.”

“Have you?”

“_No_. No! Now ask me if I’ve kissed anyone since you.”

“Aziraphale.”

“_No_, I haven’t. What else do you want to know?” He gathers Crowley to him, his chest to Crowley’s back, winds his arms around him. Moves one hand to lay flat on Crowley’s lower stomach. “Ask me.”

“I don’t-- fuck. Okay. Why do you want to do this with me?”

Aziraphale hesitates. Drums his fingers against Crowley’s skin. Sighs. “Forgive me, I don’t want to deflect your question, but I don’t understand how I possibly _wouldn’t_ want to do this with you. No matter the effort I put in trying to avoid it-- it seems to be something intrinsic within me.”

Crowley breathes. In. Out. In. Out. Steady on. “Do you know, do you _realize_, how good I could make it for you?”

“Make what?”

“_Fucking_, Aziraphale. Fucking. I could do things, it would be-- I could make it so good for you. But I wouldn’t be-- I wouldn’t be all there.” He huffs, frustrated. “I’d be there physically, of course, but it’s so much easier to-- to fly away, in my head, to be somewhere else. I don’t know how to stay present; I thought it would come naturally, with you, but I’m the same, I’m…” Breathe. Breathe. Crowley steadies his breath, steadies his hand, reaches behind him to drop one hand on Aziraphale’s hip. “None of that means we can’t… if you still want, we can--”

Aziraphale moves as if he’s the serpent, viper-strike quick, grabs Crowley’s hand and secures it with his own, over Crowley’s heart. Words don’t seem to be coming to him as fast; Crowley can feel his mouth moving, breath huffing over his hair. “Never,” he says finally, harsh, “It’s never something I would want without your full awareness and… presence. That would be…. never. Please don’t think I’m interested in any of that without you, all of you.”

Crowley relaxes, unconsciously; he hadn’t meant his words to be a test; would have gone along willingly with whatever Aziraphale wanted, but all the same relief flows through him, pours out of him; he’s crying, ugly; he’s sobbing; it’s a mess. He hates it.

Aziraphale clings to him tighter, takes a deep breath, says, “Crowley, you and I -- we aren’t these bodies. Humans aren’t either, are they? But us, us especially. We are far more than these bodies we’re inhabiting. We don’t need to do any of that… human, bodily, _genital_… business. We don’t need any of it.”

“I want it. I want. With you.” He twists his neck to rub his wet face against Aziraphale’s shirt sleeve. Aziraphale does not object to being used as a handkerchief, which says almost as much as the tight grip he’s keeping on Crowley.

“I need time to think,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

Crowley rolls around in Aziraphale’s arms, twisting til they’re face to face. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I want you to stay. Will you stay?”

“Can you do your thinking here?”

Aziraphale nods, smiles. Stretches his arm out and lets Crowley lie against his chest. Crowley relaxes for what feels like the first time in years. Lets Aziraphale think.

…

“You could have talked to me,” Aziraphale says, jolting Crowley out of a light doze.

“Hm?”

“You could have talked to me, instead of… disappearing.”

“What? No, couldn’t.” Crowley gropes in his mind for the words, says, “Would have been… intimate. Just what we’re avoiding.”

“I didn’t even realize you were in pain. Could you tell I was…?”

“Were you?”

“Of course. Of course.” He narrows his eyes. “Do you think you’re the only one who gets jealous? Do you think I like it when humans look at you? Touch you? Do you think I enjoy being apart?”

Crowley smirks. “You missed me!” he crows, as if he hasn’t been _on fire_ with missing Aziraphale for millennia.

“Oh, shut up. I didn’t miss you.”

“You did!”

“Letters!” Aziraphale says, loudly, blushing. Beautiful. “What do you think of letters?”

“Letters?”

“To keep in touch! Between…” He waves a hand between them. “This. We could discuss anything we wanted to discuss. And we could follow a protocol for protection, in case the letters are intercepted! We could have code names! We would destroy each letter immediately after reading!”

Crowley bites down hard on his lower lip to keep from laughing. “I could write letters.”

“Oh, really? I know it’s not ideal but--”

“But it’s better than the alternative.”

“Yes! Yes. I don’t think I could bear it if you…”

“I won’t. I won’t disappear again. I didn’t think--” Crowley pauses. Takes Aziraphale’s hand. “I didn’t think it would hurt you; I didn’t think you’d feel anything beyond annoyance. I thought you’d know it had nothing to do with any problems on your end-- I thought you’d know it was me, that the problems are in my head.”

“When we kissed. Were you. Were you all there with me? Or?”

“_Yes_. I was there.”

“Are you always? With kissing?”

“No.” Aziraphale looks at him. Doesn’t ask, which is probably good because he doesn’t have any words. But if anybody deserves words-- “You said we might go slow. So I wasn’t.” Crowley taps his own temple. Wasn’t stuck in his head. He’d never kissed anybody just to kiss them; it’s always leading somewhere, somewhere else. He thinks Aziraphale must be frustrated with him but he doesn’t look it; he’s staring, lovely, it’s… “Do you still want--"

“Only if you do,” Aziraphale says quickly, and Crowley kisses him, gentle as he knows how to be which is frantic, aching. Aziraphale slithers low til they’re lying next to each other, eye to eye, hand to hand. Burrows against Crowley’s neck with his face. “I did miss you,” he says. “Ever so much. Always."

“I missed you too. Always.”

“Can’t we just--” Aziraphale snuggles even closer. “Like this? We can talk more later. Letters. For now I just want to touch you.” He jolts away abruptly. “Not like--”

Crowley pulls him back. “I know what you meant. C’mere. Please, _touch me_, it’s all I think about.”

“Me too, me too,” Aziraphale says, slides his hand up the back of Crowley’s shirt, presses his palm between shoulder blades, firm, reassuring. “Don’t want to think about time. Just you.”

But time won’t leave Crowley’s thoughts; he prays to anyone who might be listening for more of it, for it to slow down. The clock keeps ticking, ticking away.


	4. epistolary interlude

Dearest Currer,

I received your last note with no small amount of trepidation. What a relief to hear that you find as much comfort as I do in this (wholly inadequate) form of communication! I thought of you today when a young mother and her little boy strolled into my place of employment. They were holding hands and the child viewed the inner workings of this establishment with a look of awed wonder - a look so reminiscent of a look I’ve seen on your face throughout our long friendship, my breath was rather taken away. Perhaps this is what your son would have looked like, had we been born different humans to live different lives. Mother and son walked away well-pleased with several discounted products I found surprisingly easy to part with.

It’s a very strange thing for me to think that the first time I kissed you, the war was only just ending. That moment seems so far away from me now. I’ve lived and relived it so often, the memory is stripped down to the bare essentials in my mind: the look in your eyes, how fast my useless heart beat, how you relaxed so completely under my hands and lips. Why don’t I have hands on you at all times? Ah, but I know why. I like to imagine you relaxed - stretched out somewhere comfortable without a care in this world, mind clear and free of all these bruises and scars and obligations that I know plague you. I don’t know how I can help when my very presence is just one more stressful obligation in your life. I often wish I was someone different, someone easier for you. But then, if I were someone different, I’d be someone different. I don’t know how to be anybody but myself, so I must go along as I am and hope I’m not making everything worse.

Why are these things so much easier to write out than to speak out loud? I have two words on my mind lately: an S-word and and an L-word. The S-word is sex. It’s not something I’ve struggled to speak about in the past, but I find myself becoming increasingly bashful at the thought of a frank discussion on the topic with you. How irrational and counter-intuitive of me! Perhaps I fear my inexperience leads to me to ask you silly questions.

Ah! Do you see? Unbearable to say out loud but just slightly shy of intolerable to write down.

You’ve expressed on several different occasions that sex is something you wish to pursue, and I confess I don’t quite understand why. Of course I understand the mechanics in theory, and that it is supposed to be a highly pleasurable activity, but what could be better than you in my bed, asleep and peaceful, safe beside me? I am certainly willing to continue moving towards a goal in that direction, but I think if you could explain to me why this is something you want to do, it would be helpful to me. My displeasure at the idea of hurting you in any way far outweighs any desire for sexual intimacy - I must be sure this is something you want to do for yourself and not something you want to give me.

Well now, have I bungled my questions on this delicate subject? You must tell me if I have, and give me a chance to fix it.

I should cut my losses here, but instead I’ll move on to an even more delicate subject: the L-word. Oh, it could stand for anything, couldn’t it? Lime or lake or liver or lagoon. It’s probably lagoon. I bring it up because I am ever so close to mentioning lagoons around you, and if I did, I know I would lose all control. Any careful boundaries would vanish and while that moment might be glorious, I truly believe it is something I would come to regret. Unimaginable that I would regret anything related to someone so dear me! I couldn’t stand it. I would give anything rather than become an even bigger danger to you. We must both agree never to mention lagoons, for both our benefit.

Now I picture you, laughing, saying: This fool! Lagoons are the furthest thing from my mind! The presumption! The idiocy!

What terrible risks we must take in our efforts to improve communication.

Do you think much of that night, years ago, in your car? How quickly things change, for better or for worse, with one small question and answer. I have no regrets but I do wonder if I did the wrong thing in voicing my thoughts. If you are in one bit more danger than you were before, is this worth the risk? Is anything?

What would existence be like without this worry?

Yours,

A

.

Acton,

I am being shipped out, I’m told, this morning: a longer reply will follow after I settle. I don’t know how long I’ll be, so I’m dropping you a line now to ask you to continue to make any presumptions you’ve made about lagoons, and to promise you I won’t mention them again.

C

.

Acton,

You’re wrong! This isn’t any easier in writing than it is talking! How can I tell you things I can barely reason out in my own head?

If you were here with me, I’d take you to breakfast across the road from my hotel so I could drink coffee, watch you order something in fluent whatever, and glow at babies in prams. I saw a brand new baby yesterday and there was nobody there to hover and praise it besides its mother, and she seemed very tired. I gave the little thing a blessing but it wasn’t the same.

I can’t bother to go for coffee by myself.

I had a visit from my boss a few weeks ago. Not the big boss, but the… general manager. So to speak. It went about as well as it could go, and it was a reminder to me that whatever you think I’m risking, it’s worth it to me. I don’t have much to lose. If you told me it wasn’t worth it to you, well. That’s a different story now, isn’t it?

Don’t ask me to repeat this, but I wanted to have sex with you before I knew rightly what sex could mean. I only knew what it could mean by figuring out what it didn’t mean, for me, for who I am, for what I am, with anyone else.

It would mean a lot to me to have it mean something with you.

I hope it goes without saying that if you don’t want it, I don’t want it. I hope it goes without saying that I won’t lie to you about what I want. I won’t lie to you.

There, that’s all I can say to you on that subject, at least for now, any further inquiries should be as specific as possible and I will do my best to answer.

I should re-write this but I doubt it’ll be any clearer than it is now.

I’m thinking of you.

C


	5. 1965

Aziraphale is waiting at the door when Crowley steps inside the bookshop. His hands are clasped over his stomach and the look of relief on his face twists and clenches low in Crowley’s gut.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, steps forward, then back, hands up.

Crowley presses forward, backing him up against a bookshelf, kissing every bit of exposed skin, biting. Trembling. “Missed you,” he says nosing up Aziraphale’s cheek. “Hands, hands.”

“Oh,” breathes Aziraphale, and rucks up Crowley’s shirt so he can slide his hands up Crowley’s back. “Yes, darling, you’re so--”

“Take me to bed. Will you?”

“Oh, but I had a plan! I was going to seduce you into more kissing.”

”And you did a very good job,” Crowley says, teeth grazing Aziraphale’s bottom lip.

“I have champagne, and I--”

“Please,” says Crowley, “you can seduce me later, I promise. There’s time, there’s time.”

“There’s never enough time,” Aziraphale says, but he leads Crowley upstairs, awkwardly because he doesn’t stop touching, hands under Crowley’s shirt, wide eyes, and when they get to his bedroom he pushes Crowley to the bed, stares down at him. “You deserve to be seduced,” he says mournfully.

Crowley closes his eyes. Forces them open. Stretches his arms out, open, vulnerable. “Ten years. Have you.” He hesitates, too long, heart pounding. “You must’ve been lonely.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Ask me.”

“Angel.”

“Ask me!”

“Is there anyone else?” Crowley asks, finally, because he has no choice, has to hear it, one way or another.

“Never, never, never” Aziraphale chants, “never, never ever. You’re the one who--”

Crowley jerks backward. “I’m the one who, what? You know I--”

“Sometimes humans look at me. Like you’re looking at me now. And I, I hate it. I don’t want to be looked at, not like that, not by them. But you, you’ve always been so-- stylish, pretty, _beautiful_. I’m sure you’re on the receiving end of more looks than I am. And you don’t mind being looked at, do you? So you--”

“So what if they look? Do you think anyone dares to touch me? I’m yours, _I’m yours_, I’ve been yours for--”

“Twenty-four years.”

Crowley snarls. “No! Do you think-- how could you think? You think I’ve only been yours since you decided you wanted me? As if it hasn’t been since-- Since-- Ugh! It never mattered if you wanted me back or not! If you turned me away right now, I’d still be yours; if you decide you never wanted me at all, I’d still be yours.”

Aziraphale swipes at tears trickling down his face, pulls back at the quilt. “Oh, _Crowley_. Lay under here with me, darling, please, please.”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says, but before he can move Aziraphale’s hands are on his face, kissing away his tears; he kisses each eyelid, kisses Crowley’s mouth, gently, then blissfully fierce, wet, groaning, _does he know_? Does he know how badly Crowley needs it like this, this focus, this force, this solicitous yet proprietary intensity?

“Tell me what you want,” Aziraphale whispers, _begs_, “tell me exactly what you want, let me give you what you want, I’ll give you anything you want, everything.”

Crowley has had years to imagine; he knows exactly what he wants, can picture it to the last detail, has practiced saying it out loud, but all he can manage now is a choking noise. He clenches his eyes shut.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Aziraphale says, “oh, darling, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re perfect. I’m going to ask you questions, and there are no wrong answers, do you understand?” He waits for Crowley’s nod, asks, “Do you want your shirt to stay on?”

“Off, all of it off,” Crowley says, grateful for this starting point. “You too, if you will, all of it off.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, as if he’s not already tugging at his tie in his eagerness, frantic, hands shaking, eyes wide.

_He’s as scared as I am_, Crowley thinks, and it’s enough, enough to allow him to take a breath. To clear his mind, to think. “I want to lay down, on my side, like this. I want you behind me, against me, I want you to wrap yourself around me, and touch me, touch me everywhere, but…”

“But?”

“Will you talk? I need, I want to hear your voice.” He wants words, wants an anchor, doesn’t want to forget who he’s with, that he wants to be here, how badly he wants this.

Aziraphale gives up struggling with the buttons on his shirt and snaps his fingers to remove all their clothes at once. He slides one arm under Crowley’s head, plants that hand on his chest. Shimmies the rest of his body closer, slotted right up against Crowley’s back, rests his thigh over Crowley’s, one hand is rubbing circles on his belly, and it’s everything, everything Crowley has ever wanted.

“You’re already hard,” Crowley says stupidly, breathing out.

“Yes, darling, around you, always, always.” Aziraphale grazes Crowley’s nipple with the hand on his chest and somehow doesn’t disturb Crowley’s head on his arm, even when he squirms at the touch. “Do you know what you like?” he asks.

“No,” Crowley admits, and it feels like a confession, but he reminds himself Aziraphale already knows, already knows him, knows everything.

“I can’t believe I get to learn you,” he says, gently flicking each nipple with his thumbs. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes, yes, didn’t know, but yes.”

“How sweet, darling, how beautiful you are, how brave. Do you want more pressure? Or keep on like this?”

“Like this, keep talking, keep talking.”

“I’ve thought about this,” Aziraphale says, biting kisses into Crowley’s neck between words. “I’ve thought about you. Maybe someday you’ll want my mouth on you. Thought about my mouth all over you. My hands, just like this. Bringing you off, again and again, I want to do that for you, I want to be the only one, I want to bring you all the pleasure you could want, want you to think of me, of that, any time anyone so much as looks at you; I don’t want you to want anyone else; I want to give you everything, keep you always, oh. Oh, Crowley, darling, is it too much? You’re very tense all of a sudden.”

Aziraphale sounds embarrassed, which is _wrong _and _ridiculous_, and Crowley can barely think with _want. _”Will you touch my cock?” he asks, and there goes any hope of being smooth about _anything_, but Aziraphale moans like Crowley is doing him a favor, like he wants it just as much.

Aziraphale slides his hand down Crowley chest, his stomach, smooths tentative fingertips over his cock. “You’re so wet, how lovely,” Aziraphale says, gravel-voiced, and Crowley could cry with it, wants to come so badly, doesn’t know how to ask, but maybe Aziraphale knows because he starts stroking at the perfect pace, pressure building rapidly, quick and so sweet. “Let it feel good,” Aziraphale says, “You deserve so much, let it feel good, let yourself feel good.”

But it’s too much, Aziraphale focused so intently on him, saying these things, he’s so close to the edge, doesn’t remember why Aziraphale would want to give him this, suddenly he’s terrified. “’Ziraphale,” he whispers, he hates it, he sounds like a small, lost child, sounds pathetic.

“Shh, it’s okay, would you prefer if--” Aziraphale removes his hand, and Crowley sobs, but just as quickly he drags Crowley’s hand to replace his own. “You’re in charge, do you still want-- yes, just like that darling, touch yourself, you’re so beautiful.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, “don’t leave, don’t leave.” He feels delirious, his face is wet with tears, he’s so close but stuck on the precipice.

“Never,” Aziraphale says, and bites down hard on Crowley’s shoulder, and oh, the sting of it is just what he needs, he’s on fire; he pulses all over his own hand, sobbing, messy, Aziraphale breathing hard against his skin, Aziraphale’s hands on him, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who is rubbing his back soothingly, crotch pulled carefully away, as if he doesn’t want to presume reciprocation. Crowley twists around, needs to be face to face; he’s dirty, _filthy _with tears and sweat and come, wants Aziraphale to see him, wants to see Aziraphale want him anyway, get off on him, _oh_. “Will you rub off on me?” Crowley asks baldly, but who needs eloquence when Aziraphale’s face goes so soft?

“Yes, please, tell me where.”

“Like this, like this,” Crowley says, pulls Aziraphale’s hips to meet his own, wants to feel the softness of his belly, wants Aziraphale’s hard cock against his soft one, so sensitive it hurts, just right. “Fuck, yes, like this, let me see you.”

“Darling,” gasps Aziraphale, thrusting in earnest.

“Yes, you’ll give it to me, won’t you, you’ll come on me, please. No one else, just me, just me.”

“Just you, you, you, I’m yours, don’t you know, can’t you tell, _yours_, _yours_, so close, darling, sweetheart.”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley presses his lips to Aziraphale’s, it’s barely a kiss, a meeting of breath, of mouths, and Aziraphale is coming, loud, unselfconscious, oh, everything.

He pulls Aziraphale tight to him; maybe he’ll feel guilty later; he couldn’t even get through the best handjob in the world without freaking out. Couldn’t stay focused on the one thing he wants most.

Or maybe stark reality isn’t something he needs to dwell on this time. Aziraphale is wearing a smug, satisfied expression and it’s beautiful, beautiful; it’s clear Aziraphale thinks everything was perfect so maybe it was. Maybe it was.

…

It’s well later, after champagne and strawberries, after multiple kissing marathons, that Aziraphale seems to work up his nerve, asks, face hidden in Crowley’s hair, “Did it mean what you wanted it to mean?”

“Meant more,” Crowley says. “Everything.” He swallows, bites his lip. “You?”

Aziraphale noses behind Crowley’s ear. “Same.” He breathes in, deep, and exhales. “I don’t want you to disappear again. Scared.”

Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale. Thinks of lagoons. “I won’t.”

“I’d give you up, if I could.”

“Don’t say that.”

“This is a very selfish thing, on my part. I won’t pretend otherwise, not anymore. I won’t have you pretending otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t give you up, if I could. Who’s more selfish?”

Aziraphale laughs, flings himself to lie back on the bed, takes Crowley with him. “So we’re both terribly selfish, then?”

Crowley could laugh it off, end this conversation here. But… “The writing helps me,” he forces out. “Hearing from you. Talking to you. Struggled without it. Before. That’s why.” He taps Aziraphale’s wrist with his thumb, tries to keep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. “I won’t make that mistake again. Promise you that.”

Aziraphale looks at him, face very red. “Okay. I… Okay.”

“If things were different, I’d--”

“Best not. Me too. But…”

“Best not.”


	6. 1975

Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s neck in a hug, tight; too tight for comfort, but Crowley relaxes, leans into it, squeezes back as hard as he can. “I’m here,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

“Every day, every day. You could be-- I don’t even know if--”

“Aziraphale, I’m not--”

“I know,” spits Aziraphale.

“I’m not going to hurt myself. That was never--”

“I know,” Aziraphale says again, softer. “I know. And I’m glad you have the protection you feel you need. That doesn’t mean…”

“Doesn’t mean what?”

Aziraphale yanks Crowley down, down til they’re both sitting, down to straddle his lap. Grips him hard around the wrists. Presses the softest kiss to his fingertip. “Doesn’t mean I know how to stop fretting about it.”

“Well,” Crowley says, because his coping mechanisms are not many and varied, “you could fall asleep. Or get drunk, or write a letter to your angel. S’what I would do.”

“I don’t have an angel,” says Aziraphale.

“No,” Crowley says. “You don’t.”

“I have you,” he says, head to one side, blush spreading up from his neck, tone twisting his words into a reluctant question. As if he should have a doubt.

“Yes. Yes.” He buries his nose in Aziraphale’s hair. Breathes in. Scents. In. Out. In. Out. Smells so different, up close, intimate; so much better than the scent-at-a-distance through the casual contact he might get in a regular meeting; the thumb brush, the shoulder bump, these touches he only gets when he’s lucky. “Please,” he says. Doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Wants Aziraphale’s hands on him, moving over him; doesn’t want those same hands to let go of his wrists, not for a second.

Aziraphale tightens his grip, pushes his face forward into Crowley’s neck. Rubs against him like a cat. Mouth open. “Darling,” he says. “I missed the taste of you.”

“Closer,” Crowley says, “closer, closer.”

Aziraphale groans. “Wait! Wait. I wanted to talk.”

“Kay,” says Crowley, kisses his way over Aziraphale’s face, moans his desperation into his mouth, doesn’t have to hide it, not anymore. Doesn’t have to hide from this.

“Can I, oh, I mean, I want--” Aziraphale cuts himself off, drops his head to Crowley’s shoulder. 

“You can tell me what you want,” Crowley says gently.

“I couldn't bear it if I pressured you, you darling thing, you beautiful, you dearest thing, you--”

Crowley chokes on a laugh. Shakes Aziraphale’s hands off his wrists, clasps his face between his hands. Darts in to kiss him again. “I trust you,” he says, “I trust you to talk to me and I trust you to stop and you can trust me to talk to you and you can trust me to stop you.” He takes a breath, shuts his eyes. Breathe. _Breathe_. “Do you? Trust me?”

Aziraphale looks at him carefully, assessing. “I don’t want you to hesitate to protect yourself. Even from me.”

“I won’t. I haven’t.”

“Haven’t you?”

Crowley sighs. “Angel. Have you been worrying about this? No. No, I haven’t.”

“I might not feel like I’m pushing in the moment, but then after…”

“You start fretting.”

Aziraphale turns his head. Kisses his palm. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me what you’d like. What you want.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes. He noses forward to hide his face in Crowley’s neck. “I’d like to be on my knees for you, darling.” Crowley can feel the tension working in his jaw, can feel him clenching and unclenching his fist in Crowley’s shirt. It’s lovely, lovely, watching him work up the courage, work past his embarrassment. “I’d like you to finish in my mouth,” he says finally, rough, face hot against Crowley’s skin. Beautiful.

Crowley feels light-headed. Dizzy with the weight of this request, with this desire for him. “That’s what you want?”

"If you’re comfortable. If you want--”

“I want, I’d like-- to try, I want to try, can we try?”

“Oh,” breathes Aziraphale, and Crowley expects him to drop to the floor, dive right in, but instead he slows down. Relaxes. Kisses him with no sense of urgency, as if he has no destination in mind. Winds one hand into his hair, presses the other against his abdomen, then lower, lower; so soft, so sweet.

“You’ll set me on fire,” Crowley mumbles, too slow, because he’s already cut open, sliced through by the sharp edge of Aziraphale’s flame, stupid with these touches like smoke against his skin.

“You haven’t asked me,” Aziraphale whispers, like a secret, into his mouth. “Are you going to ask?”

Wouldn’t it be nice if he could say it hasn’t crossed his mind to ask? But it has, of course it has, though now he can temper the thought with years of letters. With the look on Aziraphale’s face when they touch, with the longing he can read in those eyes like a book. “No,” he says. “I know you’re faithful.”

Aziraphale laughs, something full-bodied and joyful, forbidden-apple-pie scented, blissfully ruinous. Says nothing, thank Satan, because Crowley knows he couldn’t stand it. Tugs lightly at Crowley’s shirt: a question. 

“Please,” Crowley says, “please, please,” and Aziraphale pulls the shirt over his head, gently re-situates each of them by turn, til Crowley is sprawled against the back cushion of the sofa, legs open, trousers down, _obscene_, and Aziraphale is kneeling between his knees.

“You’re so beautiful,” Aziraphale says; looks drunk already, presses his face into Crowley’s thigh, tongue out, teeth scraping. “Are you sure?”

“I promise I’m sure,” Crowley says, impatient now, biting back a snarl.

Aziraphale grins. “Will you put your hand in my hair? I’d feel better if you could take control at any point.”

He pets Aziraphale’s hair. Tangles his fingers in those curls. “Angel, I’m… please.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, “yes.” He opens his mouth, wide, to lick down Crowley’s cock, to sink down, down, til the head brushes the back of Aziraphale’s throat, testing, swallowing around it. Blazing hot, eyes open: checking Crowley’s reaction.

It’s a gut punch: the care Aziraphale takes with him. The sharp concern mingled with the glazed look of enjoyment. His thumb, rubbing gently on Crowley’s thigh. The slow, hot pressure of his tongue, his mouth; so intense, so focused, lighting up every nerve ending.

Crowley tightens his hold on Aziraphale’s hair, moans, babbles, “Not going to last long, love, are you sure, do you still want--?”

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise in the affirmative, starts moving faster; had clearly been trying to draw it out, before, trying to prolong Crowley’s pleasure; is now driving Crowley relentlessly toward release. Crowley aches with it, sobs with it: the pool of throbbing heat low in his belly, the sight of _his _angel radiating gratitude over _his _cock. He should be voicing his own gratitude but can only manage a choked cry when he comes, eyes blown wide, one arm flung over his face, hidden.

By the time he comes back to himself, Aziraphale is blinking up at him, looking a little concerned, lips swollen, hair mussed. “Was that…” Aziraphale starts, gravel-voiced, stops. Bites his lip. “I trust you’re making allowances for my lack of experience,” he says, almost brusquely.

Crowley clears his throat, but his words still come out quaking, trembling, “Yeah, no. You must know that was… What are _words_? What’s better than magnificent?”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, on a breath, eyes wide, “really?”

“_Please _get up here,” Crowley says, desperate again, _always_, “let me touch you, let me touch you, won’t you?” Aziraphale finally, _finally _shifts up to Crowley’s lap. Moans when Crowley palms him through his trousers. “How are you still this clothed?”

“Wait, wait,” Aziraphale says, breathing out against Crowley’s cheek. “Do you. Are you.”

“What?”

“We don’t necessarily have to… follow the rules of human biology. If we don’t want to. Or we can do, if you want. Whatever you want.”

“I don’t… what?”

“I’m only saying you can be ready to go again now, if you wanted. And again, and again. If you wanted. As long as you wanted.”

“I… _Aziraphale_. _Fuck_. What about you? Don’t you want me to…”

“Yes. _Yes_. But won’t it be better, won’t it be amazing, once I get my fill of you? Once I’ve finally had enough to satisfy? If that’s even possible.”

Crowley swallows, or tries to. Drags Aziraphale into a kiss. Nuzzles into his neck. “I. Yes. You want that? Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, _oh_.”

Aziraphale slides down his body, serpentine, perfect, and grins up at him. “I’ve always wanted this,” he says. “Always, always.”

Always.

…

They’re still curled together at three the next morning, well past leaving time for Crowley. Well past anything they’ve ever agreed to.

“I’m breaking the rules,” Crowley says, hushed, soft. Determined to disturb the peace in the most gentle way possible.

“_We’re_ breaking the rules,” Aziraphale says. 

“Why are we breaking the rules? We’ve never before.”

Aziraphale makes a disbelieving sound. Shimmies down a little to shoot Crowley a glare, grip him by the hip.

“You know what I mean,” Crowley says. “These rules. The rules we’ve set for ourselves.”

Aziraphale rolls away, stares up at the ceiling, and Crowley feels foolish. Why question something he wants this badly ? But he’s never been able to keep his mouth shut. Never been able to keep his thoughts to himself.

“You’re not wrong,” Aziraphale says

“I know that. That’s why I’m asking.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale sighs. “That’s not what I mean.” He looks thoughtful. “It’s too easy for me to put uncomfortable or conflicting thoughts out of my mind. Too easy for me to tell myself that what I’ve been told must be true, and if that contradicts what I know is true, I _don’t think about it_.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly.

“I can’t go on like that, can I? I won’t. So I will say out loud what we already know to be true. You are not wrong. What we have between us is not wrong.” He reaches out to brush the hair out of Crowley’s face, to trace along his cheekbone with his thumb. “We must continue to be cautious, there’s no escaping that. But there’s no shame here, my darling. None at all.”

Crowley doesn’t know what to say. His skin is stretched too tight over his face, his body; the air around him seems thin. This isn’t something he ever thought he’d hear, not stated so plainly. Not without some sense of plausible deniability on Aziraphale’s part. Some lane left open for retreat.

“I’ve been cruel,” Aziraphale continues, “Cruel, to see you off without a word after these rare days of intimacy we can allow ourselves. To wait weeks or months to reach out again.”

Crowley tries to steady his voice. “We agreed. I understood.”

Aziraphale gives him a small smile. Tremulous. “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”

Crowley curls into Aziraphale’s chest. “I want to stay a while longer. I want to stay.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, “oh, thank you. Thank you.”


	7. 1985

He’s early. He’s early and he’s brought a violet and it’s okay. It’s okay. There’s no reason to think Aziraphale won’t be happy to see him here, early, with a gift, with his heart on his sleeve. No reason to think he won’t be welcome. No reason to think things haven’t changed.

Except things _haven’t _changed, not much. Maybe letters have reached him with a little more frequency. Maybe eye contact has become a little more probing.

Thirteen months ago, Aziraphale grabbed him by the wrist at the tail end of a routine meeting. Squeezed so hard it stung. Pulled away, stammering apologies. 

Maybe Crowley’s not the only one who slips up. 

Maybe things have changed, a bit.

So it’s okay. Still, he sidles into the bookshop; has to make an effort to keep the trepidation off his face. Aziraphale is behind the counter, talking to an actual real-life customer, an elderly woman, with a smile on his face. Crowley smirks, and Aziraphale looks up, catches his eye. Beams at him. Beautiful, beautiful.

Crowley barely notices the woman leaving the shop, Aziraphale closing up early. Has to shake himself back into the present when Aziraphale breathes out over the violet, the white ceramic pot. 

“It _will _behave itself,” Crowley says, eyeing the flower pointedly.

“For me?” Aziraphale asks.

“Of course.”

“But it’s so beautiful.”

“Yes. Yes.” And it is. Eye-catching from its first bloom. Radiant. Divine.

“Muriel thinks you’re very handsome,” Aziraphale says. Eyes on the violet. Hand gripping Crowley’s sleeve.

“Muriel has excellent taste,” Crowley says, absently, because there’s a glint from the fourth finger of Aziraphale’s left hand. A gold ring. Crowley raises an eyebrow. Sets the violet on a nearby shelf.

“She thinks I’m a vampire.”

“What’s this? Did I miss a _wedding_?” Crowley asks. He’s amused. It doesn’t even occur to him that there’s not some reasonable explanation until he glances up and sees that Aziraphale has gone white as a sheet. _Oh_.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, eyes wide, voice wobbly.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t usually wear it at home. I don’t…”

Crowley closes his eyes. Massages his temples. “You know what? I’m not doing this. I’m not playing a guessing game, I’m not making assumptions. Come with me.” He herds Aziraphale up the stairs without touching him, points to the sofa in his bedroom until Aziraphale takes the hint and sits down. “Explain,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, again.

“No. No. _Explain_. Are you… Have you gotten married?”

“What? No. Of course not!” Aziraphale sounds angry, like _Crowley _is the one being unreasonable. “I wouldn’t ask it of you!”

“Of _me_?” Okay. Breathe. Breathe. He shakes his head, scrubs a hand through his hair. Lets it go. “Then why did you look so guilty?”

“Did you think--? Good Lord, Crowley, not because I’ve gone and married someone else!”

_Unbelievable_. “You don’t get to take some kind of high road here! There is no other logical conclusion!”

Aziraphale crosses his arms. Stares at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. It… reminded me of you. So I bought it, and I wear it sometimes. I should have mentioned it, of course. Wrong of me.”

“So you’ve been going around, pretending we’re married. Pretending that you’re married to me.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, pleading. “It was just for me. I just wanted… and it was the only time I could…”

“The only time you could what?”

“The only time I could tell people about you! People would ask, you know, when they’d see the ring. And I’d get to talk about you. Just as if I could come home to you every night. I could say, _oh yes, my better half, beautiful and brilliant, prefers to be the little spoon, eats like a bird, drives like a maniac_. And so on. And then they’d tell me about their person. It’s nice!”

“Nice,” repeats Crowley. “_Nice_.”

“I should have told you. I should have asked if you were all right with it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Aziraphale rubs at his eyes. “I didn’t want you to think I had any _expectations_. That I’d expect you to-- to chain yourself to me, in that way.”

Crowley flings himself back on Aziraphale’s bed. Stares up, up, up. “Is this another ineffable aspect of existence I’m not supposed to understand? Is this your plan? My _husband _would rather pretend to be married to me than have a discussion about it, let alone ask me for real. As if we’re not already chained to each other. As if I’m looking for some kind of out. As if--”

“You _deserve _to have an out!” Aziraphale shouts; he thrusts his arms up in the air, palms out; lets his words reverberate throughout the room. When he continues, he’s quiet. Closed in on himself. Subdued. “I know you, darling. I know what a marriage would be to you. I can’t offer you…” He sighs. “There’s no light at the end of the tunnel here. Do you understand? There’s no distant point in the future where we can be together, safely, as a married couple would. More likely we’ll be torn apart, it could happen any moment, really. I know that will be harder for you, if we were to…” He trails off. Looks helpless.

Crowley slithers up the bed, under the covers. Holds out his hand. Waits. Exhales when Aziraphale comes to him. Takes his hand. Slides into bed with him, presses their bodies together. Holds him close.

“I love you so dearly,” says Aziraphale, choked, as if the words have been punched out of him.

Crowley breathes in deep. Lets the moment sink in. Drowns in it. _Steady_. “I love you,” he says, tapping Aziraphale’s ring. “And I want one of these.”

“This one’s yours,” Aziraphale says. “Mine is silver.”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “Oh?”

“It was just a fantasy,” Aziraphale says, low. Eyes closed.

“Was it?”

He shuffles lower. Presses a kiss to Crowley’s ring finger, to his palm, to the inside of his wrist. “No. Of course not. Of course not.”

…

He’s never seen Aziraphale like this: bleary-eyed, breathless, out of his mind with his own pleasure. Just from Crowley’s fingers trailing over his body. “Do you know you’re devastating?” Crowley asks, matter-of-fact, like his emotions are too large, too all-encompassing to bleed out through his damned throat, his inadequate voice. “Do you know that you’ve been devastating from the first, from the very start? Do you know? Did you know?”

Aziraphale says nothing. Skims his knuckles over Crowley’s cheekbones. Into his hair. Drags his other hand down Crowley’s back, scratches back up, nails over spine.

Crowley _shudders_, and it’s absolutely involuntary because he has no control left, he has nothing left; he drops his head, asks, “How is it that easy for you? How can you… I am _in pieces_, I am _dust_, I’m _ash_, and it’s so _easy _for you; how can you _wear my ring_; how can you _be like this_, how can you. I don’t. Aziraphale, angel, I--”

“Can I-- Will you--?” Aziraphale blinks up at him. He looks confused; there’s a hint of a frown on his face; he shakes his head. Kicks the quilt off the bed, vanishes the rest of his clothes. Leaves Crowley’s tight pants on, and he’s so grateful, couldn’t stand it, cant stand the thought of being more exposed, can’t, can’t.

“Thank you,” Crowley says.

“You touched me, once. Greece. You plucked a twig from my hair, your _thumb _brushed my _ear_, and I was undone, _undone_, Crowley, _darling_.” He slides his hand down his own body, eyes on Crowley, wraps his hand around his cock, lets it all show, doesn’t hide a thing. Gasps. “I didn’t understand it, didn’t know, avoided you for centuries, do you remember? I wasn’t even on your radar, darling, and I could hardly think, didn’t know _what _to think, spent years trying not to dwell on thoughts of your hands.”

He does remember, remembers being baffled by the angel’s quick exit. Remembers being hurt. Remembers shoving it down into the bottomless pit of self-loathing and bitterness he carried around with him back then. He hadn’t imagined he’d been on Aziraphale’s mind at all. Had no idea he’d ever get to see him like this, spread out before him, open and vulnerable. He clears his throat, tries to swallow. “Can I touch you? Angel.”

“Anything,” Aziraphale says. “Anything, you can do anything you like.”

“Let me suck you, I want to, please,” he rasps, all at once, forces the words out, knows Aziraphale will never let him proceed without them.

“Oh, my darling, of course, if you’re sure, of course. Do you-- what do you need?”

“Don’t touch. Hair, neck. Face. And. Will you talk? During?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, then, “_Thank you_,” so solemnly that Crowley can’t help but quirk a smile, laugh against his skin as he slides down his body; he tries to move with a little flourish, falls face-first into Aziraphale’s thigh instead; Aziraphale makes a sound imbued with such _fondness _it may as well be a bullet, may as well just discorporate him now and get it over with.

“Talk,” he says, gently, gently; takes Aziraphale in his mouth all at once, is pleased when he groans, clutches at the bed sheets.

“You’re lovely,” whispers Aziraphale, chokes on a sob when Crowley tongues at a certain spot under the head of his cock. It hits Crowley all at once that nobody has ever done this for Aziraphale before; how overwhelming it must be; maybe he was cruel to ask him to talk this time. But Aziraphale continues after a breath, strained but strong: “You’ve always been lovely. I remember you in the rain. I didn’t want you to get wet, darling, but you did, a bit. Couldn’t stop it. I should have known, then, should have known I needed to keep eyes on you. Should have known I couldn’t protect you, should have tried harder. Kept you closer.” He _writhes _under Crowley mouth and hands, but he’s in tears and Crowley wonders if he should stop; doesn’t know if he can, not without say-so.

Aziraphale reaches out, gropes for one of Crowley’s hands, laces their fingers together. “I have you close now. I have you, now.”

Crowley groans, moves faster; he’s desperate, needs to feel Aziraphale fall apart, needs to taste, to hear. _Please_, he thinks, and maybe Aziraphale can hear him, can read him, because he spills in Crowley’s mouth at that moment, squeezing Crowley’s hand, breathing as if the air has been knocked out of him.

“Crowley,” he says, soft. Sleepy. Adorable. “I-- Will you? On me?” He makes a complicated hand gesture that doesn’t resemble any sexual act Crowley’s seen before, but he gets the gist. Takes himself out of his pants, strokes quickly.

“You _are _mine,” he says, panting. Probably embarrassingly red-faced.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale; he lays a hand over Crowley’s, moans when the wet tip of Crowley’s cock brushes his fingertip, and that’s it, he’s coming before he knows it’s happening, keening and trying to hold himself upright.

“Angel, love,” he says.

“Yes, you’re everything, you’re lovely,” Aziraphale mumbles, half-asleep. “Don’t leave me.”

As if he could. As if he could.


	8. 1995

Aziraphale is pale. Drawn. But he smiles up at Crowley beautifully; he wraps his arms tight around Crowley’s waist. Presses his face to Crowley’s stomach like he’s been thinking about it. Like he’s been waiting.

“Don’t say you’re okay,” Crowley says, because Aziraphale is a broken record, a broken record through letters, in person, and even through a few finger-pecked emails. A broken record of _don’t worry_, a broken record of _I’m fine_.

“I’m okay,” Aziraphale says, of course. “I miss you, but I’m okay.”

Crowley pulls Aziraphale to his feet; find himself in Aziraphale’s bedroom so quickly he doesn’t know which of them snapped them up here. He shakes his head. “I know what okay looks like on you. You haven’t been okay for a long time.”

“I miss you,” Aziraphale says, shrugging as if it’s not much of a problem, as if he hasn’t been drifting further and further away from himself, further away from Crowley. As if he hasn’t been increasingly miserable for years.

“I’m not letting you put me off this time,” Crowley says firmly. He looks Aziraphale in the eye. Takes a step back, crosses his arms. Tries to project a level of confidence that seems to hover just beyond his grasp.

Aziraphale meets his gaze, almost, _almost _steadily. “I don’t know,” he says. “I miss you. I miss you. I don’t know why I’m… I don’t know.”

“Do you want to end this?” Crowley blurts out, and Aziraphale goes wide eyed, pale as a ghost. Rears back as if he’s been hit; stumbles away, away. Gasping. 

“Of course. Of course, if you want-- I should have thought, should have considered; of course you would-- I understand, I haven’t been-- I never meant you to feel obligated to--”. He doubles over, one arm over his stomach, the other hiding his eyes.

“No,” Crowley says, frozen, horrified, “I don’t want-- I could never-- But you’ve been so-- You’re not yourself, and if it’s because of me, I’ll do anything to fix it. Angel, _Aziraphale_, I’ll do anything. I’ll give up anything.”

“You’ll give me up,” Aziraphale says, as if he’s repeating Crowley. “You’ll give up on me, you’ll--”

“_No_, no. _Never_.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale says again. “I don’t, I don’t blame you, I don’t--”

Crowley lurches forward, drops to his knees in front of Aziraphale. “Love, love, please. Listen. You have to know I would never, ever-- not voluntarily. I shouldn’t have asked like that, right? I just don’t know how to help you. I want to help you.”

“Can I touch you? Can I--?”

“_Yes_. Yes.

Aziraphale brushes his fingers over Crowley’s shoulders, then drags his hands down to wrap around his wrists. 

“Please,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale gives him a look so careful and unsure that Crowley trembles under his gaze, has to close his eyes. “Please don’t let go.”

Crowley can feel Aziraphale sag forward, breathe against his face. Press a kiss to each of his eyelids. Crowley expects something aggressive, but he’s so gentle, careful; kissing into his mouth with a deliberate kind of caution. It’s unbearable.

“Not like that,” Crowley snaps. “How can you-- do you want me to beg?”

Aziraphale growls, shoots to his feet, but he’s still holding Crowley’s wrists, tight, twisting. “Hardly! I wish I could pluck the thoughts right out of your head. I wish I could give you what you want before you have to say a word!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says tiredly, “I’m not the one who won’t say what I’m thinking.”

Aziraphale breathes out, slumps back down to the floor. Lets Crowley’s wrists drop, but wraps his arms around him before he can complain. “Why must you always… I don’t want to burden you with things that can’t be changed. It’s selfish to want more than we can have -- and we already have so much. _I _have so much.”

Crowley goes still. Curls his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair. He can’t believe he hasn’t thought-- hasn’t made the connection. Breathe. In, out. In, out. Steady. _Steady_. “Is it… do you want to fuck me?” Aziraphale pulls back but Crowley follows close, holding on tighter, tighter. _Clinging_, he’s clinging, can’t stop, can’t play it cool, can’t pretend.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says softly. “No, _no_, it’s nothing like that. _Sweetheart_. _Husband_.”

“Angel...”

“It’s _nothing _like that. I really do only miss you, so much, all the time. I used to be able to… compartmentalize, a bit.”

“A lot.”

“Or a lot. Now I think about you all the time, every second. I miss you, every second. I’m so--”

Aziraphale freezes, and what feels like a wave of electricity hits Crowley, who cries out and shoots to his feet. “What-- what’s happening?”

“Do as I say,” Aziraphale says sharply, circling around the room with his hands out, righting anything that looks at all out of place. “Stay exactly where you land until I come for you. Do you understand?”

Crowley nods and Aziraphale snaps his fingers.

…

Crowley opens his eyes in his own bedroom. In his own flat. Alone.

…

Waiting. Crowley is no stranger to waiting. No stranger to the twisting nausea in his gut, the anxiety spiraling up his spine. Unlike Aziraphale, he’s never been much good at compartmentalizing. Feels everything, doesn’t he? He’s felt every minute of Aziraphale’s poorly hidden unhappiness. Feels every second of Aziraphale at the bookshop alone, dealing with intruders unknown. While Crowley is banished, holed up safe in bed. Skin crawling.

_Stay calm. Stay calm. There’s no use getting angry_. But that doesn’t mean he’s not.

…

Crowley has been climbing the walls of his flat for hours by the time Aziraphale arrives. He drops down neatly in front of Aziraphale, who throws his arms around Crowley’s neck.

“Just Gabriel, darling, I haven’t seen him in years, of course he would pick tonight to-- I don’t think he suspects anything; he only asked more about the Internet; I told him--”

Crowley exhales slowly with relief, but backs away, keeps Aziraphale at arm’s length. “Was that the only way? Sending me away so you could deal with it all on your own?”

Aziraphale furrows his brow. Looks confused. “That was always the plan, were something like that to happen.”

“You didn’t _tell _me that!” Crowley shouts, then takes another step back. Breathes. _Breathe_. “You don’t tell me things. You don’t tell me what you need, what you’re feeling, why you’re upset, what your plans are.”

Aziraphale has both hands up. Palms out. A gesture of submission. “I don’t want to--”

Crowley cuts him off with a laugh. “Burden me! If you want this to be-- If you want this to be real, you’re going to have to burden me. We’re going to have to help carry each other’s burdens.” He drags his hands through his hair, pulls until it hurts. “Do you want this to be real?”

“And when it gets too real, and you disappear? When you decide to sleep for another _century_, or go dark for _years_? How do I go on, then? How do you expect me to-- ? I can’t even _think_!”

“Will you never trust me?” Crowley asks, quietly, quietly, can barely manage the words.

Aziraphale makes a tiny sound, a quiet but shrill gasp, and steps forward, says, “I trust you. I trust you more than anything.”

“Aziraphale--”

“Fuck!” Aziraphale says, hands over his eyes, and he looks _desperate_, angry. “Fuck.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, wide-eyed. Disbelieving.

“It’s real. This is real, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I trust you. I trust you! I don’t trust myself! I don’t know how to say I’m weak, when you’re so strong! That I need more time with you, that I need to _touch _you.” Aziraphale gropes forward, grabs Crowley’s hand. “I don’t want to ruin this, and _fuck_, darling, I can see that I’m ruining it.”

“Nothing is ruined. _Nothing is ruined_. But you can’t leave me in the dark like that, not again. We can figure out solutions. Together.”

“There are no solutions! We almost got caught _tonight_! Do you know the effort it takes to make the shop safe once a decade? I won’t put you in more danger because I’m…”

“Because you’re miserable? _Because you’re miserable_.”

“And you’re worth it! Why do you not-- You’re worth all of it!”

“Aziraphale--”

“I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here! Your people--”

Crowley’s stomach turns to ice. “Are _demons_? What _about _my people?”

Aziraphale scowls. “Your people know you’re competent! I can deceive-- I can _mislead _Gabriel because he doesn’t think I’m intelligent enough to do _anything_.”

Crowley exhales. Draws Aziraphale to him. Kisses his face. Wrist. Neck. “I won’t say you’re the only worthwhile angel. Since you don’t like hearing it. I definitely won’t say anything about the fact that all other angels are morons.”

“_Crowley_!”

“I didn’t say it!”

“I should go.”

“Don’t go. Stay here, with me, just like I imagined. Just like I’ve been imagining for years. Stay. If you like.”

Aziraphale gives him a look. Presses his face to Crowley’s. “You’ve imagined?”

“Angel,” Crowley says. “I’m never not imagining.”

…

Aziraphale lets Crowley lead him to bed. Lay him down. In Crowley’s bed, in Crowley’s flat. “You’re the only one I’ve ever let in here,” Crowley says, like his hands aren’t shaking. Like the stress from this night hasn’t left him tangled and insecure. 

Aziraphale takes his sharp face in his hands, traces his eyebrows with his thumbs. “I’m honored,” he says, and he looks it. Looks like he’s never been given a better gift. 

“Me too,” Crowley says, it’s all he can say; does it make sense? He just has to hope his meaning comes across.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, “I imagined I was very good at hiding how hard the distance had become for me. After all these years, I didn’t realize how well you read me. How quickly. I thought I was keeping you safe, but all I did was cause you pain. I’m sorry, my love.”

“Then tell me you won’t insist we keep on going just the same. Tell me we can make changes. Tell me we can see each other more, touch more.”

Aziraphale presses his palms to Crowley’s back. Pull them tight together, speaks into his chest. “I can’t function if you’re not safe. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

“Then we’ll figure out safer ways. We always figure it out. That’s how we started writing, remember?”

“Are you… do you have something in mind?”

Crowley huffs out a desperate laugh, and Aziraphale pulls him closer, closer. “Plenty,” Crowley says, with a bit of a bite. “You’ve never thought about it?”

Aziraphale bites Crowley’s neck. Shoulder. “Can I leave a mark?”

“If it’s not just one.”

Aziraphale groans and bites down, harder than he’s ever done before, then worries at the skin with his teeth and mouth until Crowley is sure he has an angry bruise. Something that won’t fade in a day or two, something that will last. A reminder. Aziraphale drags one hand up to Crowley’s nipple, gentle, just how Crowley likes it, and bites down hard a little lower on his chest. _Fuck_.

“Do you remember when you were a snake? A small one. And that little dog was chasing you--”

“Do _not _mention that dog right now,” Crowley grinds out, pushing his chest up into Aziraphale’s face.

“And I went to pick you up but you slithered right up my sleeve. You stayed there all day. You said--”

“You were warm,” Crowley says, tugging up on Aziraphale’s shirt. “I said you were warm.” He was warm and Crowley could taste him and he’d never wanted to leave.

“Yes, that, I want-- that’s what I think about, because you were small and safe and hidden. We could talk, and we touched the whole time, a whole day. That was the longest I ever got to touch you.” Crowley holds his face against Aziraphale’s stomach, and Aziraphale is obviously holding back tears, breathing in and out evenly to control his voice.

Crowley pulls back just enough to look Aziraphale in the eye. “I was a snake. I was…” _Properly demonic_. _Lowest of the low, dust-eater_. “A _snake_. I was a snake. Why do you… do you even…?

Aziraphale looks hazy, confused. He frowns. “You’re still _you_.”

Crowley kisses up his stomach, his chest, _frantic_, mouth, lips. Scrambles to remove the rest of their clothes, says, “Yes, we’ll do that. I’ll do that. I want that. I’ll wrap around your arm and I’ll watch you not sell books and forget to drink cocoa and we’ll be so close.”

Aziraphale spreads out under him, relaxed and beautiful, until Crowley goes up on his knees to get a better look. Aziraphale freezes; there’s panic, _panic _on his face, before he manages to suck in a breath and smile up at Crowley. Brave, always brave. “Love,” says Crowley, because he doesn’t know how to ask, _what did I do wrong, how am I wrong, how am I wrong_?

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” Aziraphale says, then groans at himself and yanks at his own hair until it’s standing up on end. “All right, it’s not _nothing_, but it’s not something to get upset over. _Gabriel_, you know how he is. Sometimes it takes a few years to get his voice out of my head.”

Years. _Years_. “Gabriel. What does he say to you?”’

Aziraphale squirms. “Well, he’s very fit, and he expects everyone to be…” A sigh. “He doesn’t approve of me. My corporation. My weight.”

Crowley grinds his teeth together. “I’ll. I don’t. You have to know, how much I. _Angel_.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Aziraphale says, petting his hair. Comforting him, _comforting Crowley_, even while his own face is still red with embarrassment. “I believe you. The… the look on your face right now is very flattering.”

“I love you. You know I… I literally can’t imagine anything I would ever change about your body. You have to know that. Gabriel is…”

“I know how he is. Thank you. I… thank you.”

“Don’t _thank me_, Aziraphale, just. C’mere.” He gathers Aziraphale to him. Snuggles in close. “Don’t let go. Don’t let go. Okay? Things are changing, just don’t let go.”

“I’m here,” Azirphale says. “I’m here. I love you. I’m not letting go.”


	9. 2005

_I want you to fuck me_ is what Crowley plans on saying, is what he’s been repeating to himself over and over. Maybe he’ll say _I love you_, first. _I love you, and I want you to fuck me_.

“I love you, and I don’t like that you haven’t been inside me,” is what he says instead, which is much more complicated. Much more honest. “I love you,” he says again, after a prolonged silence he spends with his eyes clenched shut, tense, stock-still.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, and maybe Crowley loses a bit of time after that, because by the time he opens his eyes, they’re on the sofa and Aziraphale has his hand; has his _wrist _in a tight grip, though they’re otherwise sitting the entire space of a cushion apart.

“Keeping your distance?” Crowley asks acidly, tugging Aziraphale closer, closer, up against his side.

“Hardly,” Aziraphale says, pressing against him with no hesitation, and thank Satan for that, because he wouldn’t have been able to stand it otherwise. He rubs his face against Crowley’s chest, says, “I love you too. I don’t think you heard me.”

“Be closer,” Crowley says, too forceful. Too desperate.

Aziraphale climbs into his lap, lets Crowley arrange him close, chest to chest. “Yes. I’m here. I’m right here.”

“I want you,” Crowley says, “I need you to be the last-- I want you, I want everything with you. I want to want everything I need. And I need to know what you need. What you want, what you’ve wanted.”

“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale says, carefully, in the same tone he uses to explain a literary allusion he thinks is very obvious, “You don’t have to want anything. You don’t have to make yourself want anything.”

“Don’t do that. Do _not _do that. I know what I need.”

Aziraphale frowns and crosses his arms and he looks so characteristically stubborn that Crowley can’t but huff a small laugh, tipping his head back. Aziraphale breathes in and out in a steady, familiar pattern; he relaxes against Crowley, lets his arms slump to his sides. “Darling,” he says, like a prayer. Like a ghost.

“You don’t want to,” Crowley says to the ceiling, resigned, _you don’t want me_, _you don’t want me, you don’t want me_.

Aziraphale drags one palm over his face, then winds both hands into Crowley’s hair. Scratches in swirls against his scalp, soothing, presses Crowley’s face against his, nuzzles into his neck. Dots kisses over his face, his eyes. Finally pulls away, just a bit, to trace along Crowley’s bottom lip with his thumb. To press inside his mouth. He exhales heavily when Crowley sucks, grazes his knuckle with his teeth. “Maybe I resent the implication that I haven’t been inside of you. And you me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Crowley says, blissfully garbled around Aziraphale’s thumb, if only he could stay like this always, if only, if only.

“I know,” Aziraphale says. He looks thoughtful, head to one side. Groans when he drags his thumb from Crowley’s mouth, trailing a wet line of saliva down his chin. “Have you tried it on your own?”

“Tried what?”

“Anal penetration,” Aziraphale says frankly. “With your fingers. Or would you prefer it vaginally?”

Crowley can feel the heat spread up his neck. He closes his eyes. “Why does it matter if I’ve tried it or not?”

“I’ve tried it,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley starts, his eyes fly open. “What? You have?”

“Are you surprised?”

He shakes his head, but he _is _surprised, though he’s not sure why. Of course Aziraphale has experimented on his own, _of course_ he has, but why has he never mentioned it? Crowley thought… he doesn’t know what he thought.

Aziraphale is starting to look concerned by his long silence. “Are you upset?”

“Of course not!” He cups Aziraphale’s cheek, kisses him firmly. “Of course not. I. I would’ve liked to hear about it. To picture it. But of course you didn’t have to tell me. Don’t have to.”

“I wasn’t keeping it from you, dearest. I haven’t indulged in so long… my, over a century now. It never occurred to me to bring it up.”

“Did you think about me?” Crowley asks, and it’s meant to be a joke, a tease; he expects a coy response, but Aziraphale’s face goes stone-serious, and it makes Crowley realize how much he doesn’t want to hear about anyone else featuring in Aziraphale’s fantasies. “Nope! Never mind, don’t wanna know; you deserve your privacy, shouldn't have asked. ”

“I tried not to think about you. I knew you wouldn’t want-- of course not-- to be used like that.” Aziraphale’s hands flutter up Crowley’s body and back down, settling on his waist. “I did try not to think about you, but I did. I did.”

“You did,” Crowley says, heart pounding; Aziraphale tried not to think about him but he couldn’t help himself, and isn’t that a heady thought. “What did you think about?”

Aziraphale makes a dismayed sound, a groan from deep in his chest, but he maintains eye contact. He keeps hold of Crowley, doesn’t loosen his grip. “I thought of tasting you. Everywhere. I thought of bringing you pleasure, how you might look, how you might react, what you would like from me. But mostly it was.” He pauses, and now he does close his eyes, dip his head low to hide his face. “Mostly it was about how much you wanted me. I wanted. And I could pretend you wanted me. Only me.”

“Don’t be stupid, you never had to pretend about that. How can you not--”

“I saw you, once, centuries ago. You were smiling. You were kissing a human. It was… it looked serious.”

“Oh.”

“I tried to be glad for you. And I was, some, glad for you, glad you had someone, glad you were fostering connections here. But I was also…” He puts a hand over his heart, his human heart that beats so loud and feels so much pain; curls his fingers into a fist, crinkling his shirt. “I was, it was…”

“I know. I know.” He lays a hand over Aziraphale’s fist, tries to be comforting, but he feels hot all over, twisted up in knots. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Crowley, I had no right to be upset! You know I--”

“You had every right,” Crowley growls; he’s had enough, enough. “You’ve always had a right; how dare you try to be glad, Angel, how _dare _you, do you know me at all?”

“It was a long time ago, darling.” He sounds tired, worn out already, and it burns angry in Crowley’s gut.

“It was _work_. If you would have bothered to ask, you’d have known it was just work.”

Aziraphale crosses his arms again, and he probably wants to say something like _I’m sorry_, like _lets talk about it_, like _therapy_, or something else Crowley refuses to hear. Just can’t hear, not now, not like this.

Crowley sighs. “Aziraphale, if you don’t want to fuck me, just say so.”

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps, looking up and away. Hands clenched. _Embarrassed_. “It’s not that I don’t want-- I hadn’t even thought about it before today; you seemed actively uninterested. How was I-- I don’t--”

Remorse hits Crowley in a rush, a whirlwind of remembered calm and patience. He breathes out; wraps his arms around Aziraphale even though it’s kind of like hugging an angelic cactus. Very prickly. “Yeah,” he says, “yes, all right, you’re right. Yeah. I’ll slow down. Let’s slow down.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale says. “Okay.”

…

“This is very slow,” Crowley says, panting, gripping Aziraphale’s hand on his lower stomach, nosing against his cheek. “Love, love, love.”

Aziraphale hums, distracted, drags his hand up to press the pad of his thumb to the base of Crowley’s neck, then sucks in a breath when Crowley goes limp, relaxed. Calm. “Oh, my dear,” he says; maneuvers them both until Crowley is sprawled on top of him. “Don’t move, I need to memorize you, just like this, just as you are.”

“Don’t have to,” Crowley murmurs into his neck. “Don’t have to memorize, we can do it any time, I’ll do it any time.”

Aziraphale goes very still. “If I had you like this whenever I wanted, I’d never let you go,” he says, harsh. Angry, sad. Angry, but not at Crowley.

“Good,” he says, and sits up, legs straddling Aziraphale’s, to strip off his shirt. Unbuttons Aziraphale’s shirt in turn, slow, slow. “I wonder… how fast is too fast?”

“What is it you have in mind?”

“You said you wanted to taste me everywhere. Were you. Is that. Did you mean it?”

Aziraphale swallows, and Crowley tracks the movement of this throat with his eyes, then with his knuckles. “I’d devour you,” Aziraphale says simply. “I’ll devour you.”

“Yes, I want, will you--” But he can’t say it, can’t bring himself to voice a request like this, can’t keep it light. Can’t make it no big deal. Crowley sighs, snaps his fingers to remove his clothes. Spreads his thighs, brings Aziraphale’s hand to hover between his legs. “We’ve never. I want. Will you?”

Aziraphale presses up, deliberately slow as if to give Crowley plenty of time to object, until the pad of one finger caresses Crowley’s hole; Crowley surprises himself by moaning, too loud, uncontrollably. Aziraphale takes a sharp breath. Closes his eyes. “Here?”

“I’m sure,” Crowley says quickly, to forestall the inevitable questions. “I want it, I’ve been wanting, from you. You. If you want it, if you want it too. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Aziraphale says quietly, seriously, and maybe he does. Maybe he really does. He clears his throat, scratches lightly against Crowley’s back. “Do you want-- do you want to be on your hands and knees?”

“Yes, yeah, I’ll--” He shifts position, twists until he’s on his knees and his elbows. Exposed. Aziraphale rubs circles over his lower back, soothing, comforting, _here_, but Crowley can’t stop trembling, mind too quiet.

“Darling?”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Yes.” He rubs his face against a pillow; tries to focus, focus on Aziraphale, on his breathing, his hands, the small sounds he’s making. _Angel_, he chants to himself, _angel, angel, angel_.

Aziraphale spreads Crowley open, slow, careful; he licks lightly, so tentatively over Crowley’s hole, he’s clearly nervous and Crowley wants to tell him its all right, but it’s only at a distance that he can see; he can hardly open his mouth; it would be so easy to let go, let go, float away in a sea of muted pleasure.

“Stop,” Crowley chokes out, and Aziraphale does, of course he does; stops and shimmies up the bed to wrap Crowley in his arms without a question. Without hesitation.

“Darling, darling, breathe,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley does, or tries. In, out. In, out.

“I don’t want to stop. I need. I don’t want to stop.”

Aziraphale swallows dryly, asks, “What do you need from me?”

“I need to see you. Can we, can we try again in a different position?”

“Are you sure? Crowley. I don’t want you to push yourself. If it’s for me that you want to keep going, I can’t--”

“It’s not. It’s not, I promise you that. It’s for me. If you want to stop, we will, but I want to try again. If you will. If you still want.”

Aziraphale gives him a searching look, then leans in to kiss him. Kisses him, eyes closed, mouth open, pressing his love into Crowley with such intensity that he can barely respond. Crowley has to close his own eyes to kiss back, tries to match the length and breadth of this feeling, tries to say_ please, thank you, I love you_, without words.

“Tell me how you want me,” Aziraphale says, moving up to his knees, and Crowley props himself up a few pillows and spreads his legs obscenely wide; it’s awkward and he’d be horrified for anyone else to see him like this, but Aziraphale looks at him like he’s perfect. Like he’s exactly what he wants. “The second you want to stop…” Aziraphale trails off.

“I’ll say so. I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Aziraphale says, and lowers his head. This time he starts with the sensitive skin on Crowley’s inner thighs, _biting_, and oh, sucking a bruise, then another, until Crowley is marked and keening. “Nobody else will ever see these,” Aziraphale says, sure and tentative at the same time, gazing up into Crowley’s eyes, and yes, this is what he’s wanted, this is what he’s needed all along.

“Because I’m yours,” Crowley says, and cries out when Aziraphale licks again at his opening, less hesitant this time, grasping up Crowley’s body for his hand and squeezing, reassuring them both. 

“More?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yes,” Crowley says, “yes, yes.” 

Aziraphale lowers his head again, re-applies himself, licks over Crowley’s hole with the flat of his tongue, then traces all around the rim with the tip, and Crowley is hard already, leaking with the sensation and sight of Aziraphale moaning over him like he’s rare and brilliant, like he’s licking his spoon of any trace. He lets himself relax, arms limp, lets himself relax and stay present, lets himself enjoy this. Lets himself think about about Aziraphale, his angel, how careful he’s being, how gentle. Lets himself want, really want for maybe the first time, Aziraphale inside him, tongue, fingers, cock, anything. Anything.

By the time Aziraphale glances up to check in again, Crowley has tear tracks down his cheeks; he can’t stop making involuntary and embarrassing sounds of pleasure; he’s on fire; he’s desperate. “Angel,” he says, gritty and useless, a question. Begging.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and clambers back to his knees, _engulfs _Crowley’s cock in his mouth all at once, but doesn’t move. Grabs Crowley’s hand to tangles his fingers in his curls and waits. Waits for Crowley to move. To set the pace. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says helplessly, and begins to move. Deep but slow, slow, and this. This is how Aziraphale gets him, this is how he knows him, this is what he wants: in order for Crowley to be gentle to Aziraphale, he has to be gentle to himself. He has to go slow, he has to work himself up to a slow, deep climax in his angel’s mouth, has to look Aziraphale in the eye and believe he deserves it. He has to believe he _deserves _it. “Aziraphale,” he says again, too quiet for the intensity of the experience, but he can’t be loud now, can’t disturb the moment, comes with a low gasp; his eyes closed and Aziraphale’s hair clutched in his hand.

Crowley thinks it takes a minute or two for him to come back to himself, but despite that Aziraphale is still sitting between his legs when he opens his eyes. “Angel?” he asks carefully, and Aziraphale blinks up at him, dazed. 

“You are…” He trails off.

“_You _are,” Crowley says, grinning, sits up to kiss him, taste him, touch him. “Tell me what you want. Anything.”

“On your thighs,” he says immediately, then closes his eyes as if he’s embarrassed; his red cheeks get a little redder and _oh_. He’s been thinking about it, then.

“Yes,” Crowley says, “Of course. Of course.” He lays back, spreads his thighs a little apart. Snaps Aziraphale’s trousers away-- how was he still wearing trousers?

Aziraphale straddles his knees, and Crowley feels like he’s floating; feels like he’s weightless, watching Aziraphale touch himself, the high of his own orgasm, the tender and terrible closeness between them. 

“I love you,” Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale comes with a gasp, pulsing over Crowley’s bruised thighs, like he’s been ready for ages. Like he’s been waiting.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says. “I love you too.”


End file.
